Nalo Hopkinson: Midnight Robber

“Machète fight different, though; it ain’t a clean type of fighting. When them practice, the marshall make everybody wear the leather armour and use the wood blades. Even so, I see people get bruise-up bad in machète practice. I don’t like to watch the machète duels so much. One crazy motherass so-and-so only have to fetch you one chop for you to end up dead. Oh—excuse my language, doux-doux.”

Tan-Tan couldn’t wait to see the fight yard with her own two eyes. She made haste to get dressed; she even laced up her aoutchicongs by herself, instead of begging Nursie to do it for her. By the time she reached the front yard, Ione was already waiting for her in a pedicab.

“Hurry up, nuh, Tan-Tan?” Ione pulled her into the cab. She made sure Tan-Tan was settled, then tapped her foot on the floor of the cab for the runner to move off.

Ione’s eyes were bright. She sat straight and tall in the cab, waved at passers-by on the long avenue, cut her eyes at the ones who scowled at the mayor’s cheating wife. Ione just smiled: Granny Nanny’s ears and eyes everywhere kept people’s actions to one another respectful. Ione was running her mouth off steady like water from a tap: “I so love to watch the practice. The fellers does look too nice, oui, with the sweat shining on their muscles, and them tiny dhoti them does wear like loincloth.”

“Compère Ione,” came the runner’s deep voice. He glanced back at them over his shoulder. “Me bring one message for you. You will hear it?”

“You? A message for me? From who?”

“The Obi-Bé.” The witch woman. “She say must tell you to go where it have plenty people today, not to stay in your house and grieve for your man.”

Ione smiled, a pleased look on her face. “And ain’t is that I doing?”

“She say the shells tell she a former love making plans to change your life.”

“Koo ya! Look at that now. I know say Quashee been practising in the fight yard since before Jonkanoo Time. I bet you he getting ready to call that blasted Antonio out to duel. It woulda serve Antonio right if Quahsee kill he dead! I spend too many nights crying over that man and he worthless ways!” Ione’s eyes were bright and shiny. Excitement or fear, Tan-Tan couldn’t tell.

They were passing through the heart of Cockpit Town now. Tan-Tan took in the Carnival sights. The runner took them up Main Street, past the town square, where the big calypso tent was erecting itself with the aid of tiny, agile chicle fetches. Calypsonians had been touring all the cities and towns on Toussaint. They went from one calypso tent to the next, singing their best new kaisos, competing for the title of Road March Monarch. There was a billboard in front of the tent. Its message: “Woi, Mama; Is a Calypso Fight; Piquant for So Tomorrow Nite!” Behind the words flashed vids of the reigning Road March Monarchs, Mama Choonks and Ras’ Cudjoe-I. Piquant was a competition of skill and wit. The singers had to make up insults for one another in song, right there on the stage.

“Mummy, Mama Choonks going to sing ‘Workee in the Parlour’ tomorrow night?”

“Stop it, Tan-Tan; where you hear such rudeness? You musn’t mind wicked people with nothing better to do than fast themself in other people business.”

Tan-Tan didn’t understand. More big people story. But she’d heard people in the house softly singing the chorus to “Workee”:

Tan-Tan didn’t understand all the words, but she liked the tune. Nursie had told her that “tallawah” meant somebody tough, somebody who could take hard knocks. Then she’d laughed a nasty laugh.

Little bit down the road they passed the masquerade camp. From inside came one set of hammering and drilling and cussword flying like breeze.

“You hear that?” Ione said. “Them building everything by hand, oui? The old-time way.” She shook her head in admiration.

“Who, Mummy?”

“Fimbar and Philomise. They making the costumes for Carnival Day. Send-off parade here in Cockpit County Jour Ouvert afternoon, then them have a mag-lev train to carry everybody to Liguanea Town for the big jump-up; all the bands from every parish in the county competing.

“One big mako secret what theme them two men come up with for the float this year, oui? Even though everybody who jumping-up in the parade done pay for their costumes already.” Ione smiled. “Is so them does always do it. People fenneh for know what they going to be wearing; no way to tell.”

“Their eshus wouldn’t tell them?”

“Nah. Fimbar and Philomise have special dispensation to lock out data from the spider web till they done.”

The runner shouted: “You see them five hard-face men and women guarding all the entrances? Just for show, oui; the camp eshu give better security.”

The only clue to the parade theme was a big banner across the front of the building with the words “Wail for Marley.”

“Man,” the runner chuckled, “Fimbar and Philomise been life partners and business partners since God was a boy, oui? Two people, one mind.”

Tan-Tan stared at the camp until they had passed it. The banner flapped in the breeze, slapping the side of the building.

Finally the pedicab was at the fight yard all the way at the opposite edge of the town. While Ione was paying the cabbie, Tan-Tan jumped down and ran to the big wrought iron gates.

It had an old man guarding the entrance, standing in between the two stone pillars on either side of the gates. His face was nothing but wrinkles. He had a red kerchief tied and knotted on his old bald head. He was wearing a dirty white singlet. A dhoti flapped loose round his skinny matches stick legs-them. He was holding a long wood staff, but his wrinkly brown arms were meager so till you couldn’t be sure what was staff and what was arms. He looked to Tan-Tan like a stick insect. She didn’t get to see too many people too old for telo rejuve.

“Good afternoon, young lady,” he said to Tan-Tan in his shaky old-man voice. “Don’t you is the mayor little girl?”

“Yes, mister.”

“And is what I could do for you this fine day?” The old man smiled down at her. His teeth looked white and perfect and new.

“Me and Mummy come to watch the practice, mister.”

“Good afternoon, Bogle,” Ione said. “You keeping well?”

“Yes, ma’am; thank you, ma’am. The hot sun does make the old bones feel young, oui? Like I could dance the stick fight again.” Bogle opened the gates so mother and daughter could pass inside. “Mind allyou stay on the yellow walkways, all right?”

Baps! A man landed on his back on the ground just in front of Tan-Tan and Ione. Berimbau music jangled to a halt. Before they could move out of the way, a woman strode up. She looked at Ione, who stepped back, pulling Tan-Tan along with her.

“Get up!” the woman said to the man on the ground. “Get up, you lazy so-and-so!” Her voice was two rockstones cracking together. “Tomorrow when you fighting for real, you can’t lay down so every time you get throw. Get up, I say!”

“Must be the bare hand marshall, she,” Ione said to Tan-Tan in a low voice.

The marshall’s chest was a bull chest. Her bare arms and legs-them were thick like poui tree trunk. She hauled the man to his feet. “Every Carnival them send me one set of allyou soft-hand people, say you learning how for fight. Well, go back and fight then, nuh!” With a hard slap to the man’s shoulder she sent him stumbling back into the ring. The man who’d thrown him all that way looked determined and cocky. The berimbau player began his tune again. The two men faced off, grappled, began to tumble around the ring of the roda.